“My lord?”
He looked up to see Cottsloe standing by the door.
“McTavish has just come in. He’s waiting in the Office.”
Luc laid down his napkin. “Thank you.” He glanced at Amelia. “McTavish is my steward. Have you met him?”
“Yes. It was years ago, however.” She pushed back her chair; a footman started forward—rising, Luc waved him back, drew out the chair.
Amelia stood and faced him, smiled into his eyes. “Why don’t I come with you and you can reintroduce us, then I’ll leave you to your business while I continue with mine?”
He took her hand, set it on his sleeve. “The Office is in the west wing.”
After meeting McTavish and casting a curious glance over the Office, Amelia rejoined Mrs. Higgs, and they continued their inspection. While the house was in excellent condition, and all the woodwork—floors and furniture both—gleamed with beeswax and care, virtually every piece of fabric was in need of replacement. Not urgently, but within the next year.
“We won’t be able to do it all at once.” They’d completed their circuit of the reception rooms; in the main drawing room, Amelia scribbled a note putting the curtains in that room at the top of her list. Followed by the curtains in the dining room. And the chairs in both rooms needed to be reupholstered.
“Will that be all, ma’am?” Higgs asked. “If so, would you like me to get your tea?”
She raised her head, considered; unlikely that Luc would wish for tea. “Yes, please—send the tray to the small parlor.”
Higgs nodded and withdrew. Amelia returned to the parlor off the music room.
Leaving her notes—a considerable pile—in the desk, she retreated to relax on the chaise. A footman appeared with her tea tray; she thanked and dismissed him, then poured a cup and slowly sipped—in silence, in isolation, both very strange to her.
It wouldn’t last—this had always been a house full of people, mostly females. Once Minerva and Luc’s sisters returned from London, the house would revert to its usual state.
No—not so. Not quite.
That was, indeed, what this strange interlude signified—the birth of a new era. As Higgs had said, the weather had changed, the season swung around, and they were moving into a new and different time.
Into the period when this huge house would be hers to run, to manage, to care for. Hers and Luc’s the responsibility to steer it, and the family it sheltered through whatever the future might bring.
She sipped her tea and felt that reality—the fabric of their future life—hovering, as yet amorphous, unformed, all about her. What she made of it, how she sculpted the possibilities . . . it was a challenge she was eager to meet.
Her tea finished, the sunshine tempted her to try the French doors. They opened; she strolled out into the gardens.
As she walked the clipped lawns, then strolled along a wisteria-covered walk bathed in sunshine, she turned her mind to her master plan, to charting the immediate future.
Their physical relationship appeared to be taking care of itself, developing of its own accord—all she needed to do was devote herself as required, something she was perfectly willing to do, especially after last night. And this morning.
She grinned. Reaching the end of the walk, she turned into the crosswalk and continued on. She hadn’t expected to feel so confident, to gain such a fillip from knowing she pleased him in their bed, from knowing that his desire for her was real—entirely unfeigned; if anything, it had grown rather than diminished since first they’d slaked it.
Another unlooked-for success had been his readiness to accept her assistance with the Autumn Gathering and his new idea about schools. It might simply be that he saw her as competent, and he was willing, given the burdens he already shouldered, to let her help; nevertheless, it was a start. A step toward true sharing, which was, after all, what a real marriage was about.
A real marriage—that was her goal, the absolute achievement she’d promised herself. The marriage she intended to have.
At the end of the crosswalk, she looked up and ahead—to the stables, and the long building that extended beyond. From there came the unmistakable yipping of hounds.
Luc’s treasures. Lips curving, she set out to view them for herself. She was quite partial to dogs—just as well, for Luc’s pack of prize Belvoir hounds had been his hobby since boyhood. A lucrative one—the pack would be a source of income now, both through being leased to the local hunt and through breeding fees and sales of the offspring of champions like Morry and Patsy.
The kennels, clean, well run, spic-and-span, were reached via the courtyard around which the stable was built. A narrow aisle ran down the center of the long building with pens giving off on either side; there she found Luc talking to Sugden, the kennel master.
Luc’s back was to her; he and Sugden were discussing buying another breeding bitch. Sugden saw Amelia first, colored, closed his lips and nodded, tugging at his cap. Luc turned, hesitated, then raised a brow. “Come to see my beauties?”
She smiled. “Indeed.” That momentary hesitation hadn’t escaped her—he was wondering if she was going to be upset at learning he was using her dowry to buy a breeding bitch. Letting real appreciation light her eyes—the entire pack were magnificent specimens—she nodded to Sugden and tucked her hand in Luc’s arm. “They seemed to be calling me. How many do you have?”
He moved down the aisle with her. “They’re just hoping you’ve brought dinner.”
“Are they hungry? When do they get fed?”
“Always, and soon. There are nearly sixty all told, but only forty-three actually run. The others are mostly too young. A few are too old.”
One of the “too old” was lying curled on a blanket in the last pen, the one closest to the potbellied stove that in winter would heat the area. The pen door was wedged open; the dog lifted its head as Luc neared, and thumped its tail.
Luc crouched, patting the greying head. “This is Regina. She was the matriarch before Patsy.”
Amelia crouched beside him, let Regina sniff her hand, then scratched behind the dog’s ears. Regina tilted her head, lids heavy.
Luc sat back on his heels. “I’d forgotten you like dogs.”
Just as well, for in winter they were forever around. He even brought some—the very young and very old, like Regina—into the house when it was freezing out.
“Amanda does, too—we always wanted a puppy, but it was never fair, not living in London all the time.”
He’d never considered—never thought that, although they shared such similar backgrounds in some ways, in others . . . he couldn’t imagine not having a sprawling country house like the Chase, or the Place, to call home. Yet she hadn’t; while he’d spent his summers riding the wolds, she’d been visiting here, visiting there—no single place her own.
The tenor of the hounds’ call changed. Luc glanced back down the aisle, then rose, and reached down to take Amelia’s arm. “Come on—you can help feed them.”
She stood eagerly; he steered her back up the aisle, took over from the lads whose chore it was to feed the dogs, then showed her how much to place in each bowl. She took to it with alacrity, quickly learning to gently tap the hounds’ noses out of the way long enough to reach the bowls.
At the end of the aisle, opposite Regina, Sugden was checking the latest litter. The pups were six weeks old, not yet weaned. Sugden nodded at Luc as they approached.
“This lot’s doing well—might even have another champion here.” He pointed to one puppy who was nosing along the edge of the pen, wuffling and snuffling. Luc grinned; leaning over the low barrier erected to keep the puppies in, he scooped the questing pup up and showed him to Amelia.
“Oh! He’s so soft.” She reached for the pup, took him in her arms; delight lit her face. When she cradled him like a baby and tickled his tummy, the pup closed his eyes and sighed.
Luc watched, struck—then he glanced around. When he looked back, Amelia glanced at
him. “Later, when they’re grown, can we send one to Amanda?”
She looked down at the pup, continuing to ruffle the downy fur on its belly. Crooning softly. Luc looked down at her head, at the golden curls. “Of course. But first, you’ll need to pick out one for yourself.” He took the now-dozy puppy from her, held him up again, checked the splay of his legs, the size and formation of his feet. “This one would be a good choice.”
“Oh, but—“ Amelia glanced at Sugden. “If he’s a champion—“
“He’ll be the very best dog to own.” Luc bent and returned the puppy to its mother. “Belle will be honored.” He stroked the bitch’s head. She closed her eyes, then turned her head and licked his hand.
Luc stood. He nodded to Sugden. “I’ll check with you tomorrow.”
Taking Amelia’s arm, drawing her away from the apparently fascinating sight of her little champion suckling, he guided her up the aisle and out of the kennels. “You’ll have to think of a name for him. He’ll be weaned in a few weeks.”
She was still glancing back down the aisle. “Will I be able to take him for walks then?”
“Little walks, more like gambols. Puppies love to play.”
Amelia sighed and faced forward, looping her arm through Luc’s. “Thank you.” She smiled when he glanced at her, stretched up and kissed him lightly. “He’s the most precious wedding gift you could have given me.”
Luc’s expression clouded; she immediately frowned. “I’m afraid I haven’t got anything to give you in return.”
Wide-eyed, she met his gaze—but couldn’t read it.
A moment passed, then he lifted her hand from his sleeve, raised it to his lips. “You,” he stated, “are more than enough.”
She assumed he meant her dowry, but as she searched his face, his eyes, she wasn’t sure . . . a wave of fine tension swept up her spine.
They strolled on and she faced forward, conscious of the tightness about her lungs. Wondered if she should tell him she didn’t mind if he spent money on his dogs—wondered fleetingly if that was why he’d given her one, his latest champion. Dismissed the thought as soon as it occurred. She’d never known Luc to be devious—he was too damned arrogant to bother.
Should she speak? They hadn’t mentioned her dowry since those early days, yet in truth, there was nothing to say. When it came to money, to how he managed their now-combined fortunes, she trusted him implicitly. Luc was definitely not his father; his devotion to the Chase, to his family, was beyond question.
Indeed, it was that devotion that had allowed her to get this far—to be here, walking the grounds of the Chase, now her home, with him, now her husband.
She could feel his gaze on her face, could feel the heat of him, the sleekly muscled length of him, all down her side. Not a touch but the promise of a touch, and more.
Glancing up, she smiled, and tightened her hold on his arm. “It’s too early to go inside. Come and show me around the gardens. Is the folly on the rise still there?”
“Of course—it’s one of the stated attractions. We couldn’t let it fall into disrepair.” Luc turned toward the path leading up the rise. “It’s one of the best spots in the district from which to view the sunset.” He glanced at Amelia. “If you want to indulge, we could go up there.”
Her smile deepened; she met his gaze. “What an excellent idea.”
Chapter 15
The idea inhabiting her mind had not been the same as the one inhabiting his; he’d actually imagined they’d watch the sun set.
The next morning, while he paced in the hall waiting for her to join him to ride about the estate—infinitely safer than walking the gardens or anywhere else with her—Luc was still mentally shaking his head, trying, largely unsuccessfully, to rattle his disordered wits back into place.
What with their visit to the folly—folly indeed!—it hadn’t been his idea to risk being caught in flagrante delicto by one of his undergardeners—it was midsummer; they were out in force—or worse, by one of his neighbors, many of whom, with his permission, used the folly for the purposes of bucolic introspection. What they would have found would have opened their eyes—in some it would have caused heart failure.
What with that, and their subsequent late return, then the unexpected challenge of dinner and the fight to resist behaving as he had the night before and dragging her straight off to their room—only to succumb before they’d been in the drawing room for more than ten minutes—let alone the consequent events of the night, and the dawn, he felt thoroughly disoriented.
He was—had been—the gazetted rake, yet it seemed it was she who was set on corrupting him.
Not that he was complaining, at least not about the outcome, not even at the folly—he felt desire lance through him simply at the memory—yet it was all . . . so different from what he’d expected.
He’d assumed—been sure—he was marrying a stubborn but delicate flower, yet she was turning out to be a tigress. She certainly had claws—he had good cause to know.
The clack of her heels on the stairs had him turning. Looking up, he watched as she came gliding down. She wore an apple green riding habit; the color turned her curls a deeper gold. She looked up and saw him; her face lit with eagerness, and—or so he told himself—something else. An expectation that had nothing to do with their projected ride.
She stepped down from the stairs and came toward him; she halted, looking down, fiddling with the buttons on her glove. The morning sun shone through the fanlight behind him and poured over her.
For one instant, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The same feeling that had flooded him yesterday when he’d seen her cradling the puppy rushed over him again. A longing, deep-seated and absolute, a need to give her something even more precious of his to hold and croon over.
She grumbled about the buttons. The feeling ebbed, but didn’t completely leave him. He hauled in a deep breath, glad she was distracted, then reached for her wrist. As he had before, he deftly slid the tiny buttons home. His eyes met hers; briefly, he raised her wrist to his lips, then closed his hand about hers. “Come—the horses are waiting.”
In the forecourt, he lifted her to her saddle, watched critically as she settled her feet and gathered the reins. He’d ridden with her years ago. Her seat had improved since that time; she grasped the reins more confidently. Satisfied, he strode to his hunter and mounted, then with a nod, directed her down the drive.
Side by side, they cantered through the morning, through the landscape of wide green fields liberally splotched with the darker greens of copses and coverts. They headed south, occasionally jumping drystone walls; he knew every field, every dip, every wall for miles—he avoided any route he deemed too challenging.
If Amelia guessed, she gave no sign, but took each jump easily, with a confidence he found both reassuring and yet distracting. Another sign of difference, of the maturity the years had wrought in her—and changed her to woman, no longer girl.
The summer sky wheeled above them, a wide and perfect blue, with only a hazy wisp of cloud to veil the beaming sun. The chirp of insects, the flight of startled game as they passed a covert, were the only sounds they heard above the steady drum of their horses’ hooves.
They went as far as the lip of the Welland Valley, drawing rein on the ridge to look down on the rich green land threaded by the river, a silver ribbon winking here and there.
“Where do your lands end?”
“At the river. The house lies in the northern part of the estate.”
“So those”—Amelia pointed to a cluster of slate roofs visible through trees—“are yours?”
Luc nodded; he wheeled his dappled hunter in that direction. “We’re doing repairs to one of the cottages. I should look in on the work.”
Amelia set her bay mare to follow him along the ridge, then down the gentle slope to the cottages.
They were sturdy dwellings built of the local pink-brown stone. The central cottage of the three was being reroofed—it was prese
ntly roofless. Men were perched on the wooden skeleton, adding new struts; the sound of hammering filled the air.
The foreman saw them, waved, and started to climb down. Luc dismounted, tied his reins to a branch, then lifted Amelia to the ground.
“A huge branch went through the roof during the gales last winter. The house has been uninhabitable since.” With a nod, he directed her attention to one of the other cottages from which a tribe of small children spilled to stand gawking at them. “The three families have lived squeezed into the two cottages for nearly six months.”
Luc turned as the foreman came up; he introduced Amelia. The foreman nodded, tugging his cap, then gave his attention to Luc.
Who’d been scanning the work through narrowed eyes. “You’re further on than I expected.”
“Aye.” The foreman joined him in surveying the work.
Amelia decided to leave them to it. She started toward the children; no sense wasting an opportunity to get to know the estate families.
“Mind you, if we hadn’t been able to get that order in afore June, we’d have been nobbled. The timber merchant had just enough to see us through, but with all the repairs ’round about starting as soon as the weather turned, he was cleaned out in a week.”
“But you’ve made good progress nonetheless. How long before the slates go back on?”
Amelia let the voices fade behind her; reaching the nearest of the children, she smiled and bent down. “Hello. I live up at the big house—the Chase. Is your mother in?”
The younger children stared, curious, bright-eyed. One of their elders, hanging back by the door, turned, and shouted, “Ma! Her new ladyship’s here!”
The information caused a minor panic. By the time Amelia had reassured the three young mothers that she wasn’t expecting to be specially entertained, and had accepted a glass of lemonade and spoken to two old crones huddled by the hearth, a half hour had passed. Surprised Luc hadn’t summoned her, she went back out to the stoop and looked around. The horses were under the tree, placidly grazing, but there was no sign of Luc. Then she heard his voice and looked up.
On A Wicked Dawn Page 27
